I was painting a sign outside my Mexican restaurant once, years ago. It was very expensive high-pigment paint and I was proceeding slowly. The tin had warned not to let the paint get wet. About mid-afternoon, clouds formed, pregnant with North Carolina rain. I worked faster, with a growing sense of unease. I might be hurrying through a doomed project, but I didn’t know what else to do.
A man passed by. I recognised him as Hey Bob, a respected local builder before his arthritis got him. I hailed him—“Hey, Bob!”-- and began to explain my fears about the approaching rain. I explained that the pigment in the paint was specially formulated, but that it might run and streak if it got wet. Hey Bob listened carefully, nodding at each point. I was still halfway up the ladder, unable to decide what to do. At last he said,
“You know what I’d do if it was me?”
”No, tell me,” I said eagerly.
He grinned. “I’d let it rain.”
I’ve been trying to ever since.